


Soup

by bitchybrave



Category: South Park
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:04:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8836840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bitchybrave/pseuds/bitchybrave
Summary: Wendy and Stan reunite at a slightly melancholy time in their lives, and each find the other to be vastly different from the person they remember. Angst ensues.





	1. Chapter 1

Wendy walked into the soup kitchen. It was 6:53 am and she wasn’t even a little tired, as she usually had something booked that required her getting up this early most days anyway. 

She was sixteen, a slightly stocky blue eyed overachiever, who attended regular meetings of The Young Philosophers Club, she was head of the Drama and French Club and helped out with the support group the school counselor had implemented on Tuesday afternoons. 

She played lacrosse and got straight A’s. She carried an immense passion for caring and advocating for the less fortunate through her life, which tells you what she was doing at the soup kitchen.

The same could not be said for Stan Marsh, whom was working at the kitchen trying to fulfill a mandatory 72 hours of community service.

His drinking got heavier, starting with seventh grade he was seldom seen attending school. 

He’d pick a day each semester to show up, quite often he’d appear obviously hungover. 

By eighth grade he’d broken up with Wendy via a drunk dial, which his sober alter ego had been intending to do anyway, he claims.

Stan attended two days of his freshman year and during the summer he urinated on Kyle’s house after he’d hooked up with Eric at a party. 

He yelled all of the things Cartman had said to torment Kyle when they were kids, at least as many as he could remember in his usual state of drunken stupor. 

Sheila pressed charges and here he was, vowing to himself he’d make no attempt to interact with anyone and he’d thaw all the food while listening to amateur remixes of Wiz Khaalifa on Spotify. 

It barely even fazed him when his former elementary school sweetheart walked in and hung her coat up on the back of the kitchen door.

The same could not be said for Wendy, who had to do a triple take upon seeing Stan.

He was holding a couple boxes of frozen pastries and was putting them on a large tray, head down, mouthing along to the music playing through his earphones. She wasn’t sure what to say.

“Hi, Stan…” Wendy tried to initiate a conversation, in a half-assed peppy/perky tone. 

He looked up and acted like he hadn’t heard her, because his music was so loud, he actually hadn’t. S

he gestured for him to take his headphones out by tugging at the air around her ears. “Oh. Hi, Wendy.” 

He immediately tried to put them back in, but she gave him a stern look. “If you’re going to ask what I’m doing here, don’t bother, I’m not telling.” 

She chuckled “Don’t be silly, Stan! I’ve heard…How many hours?” 

“72.”

A shitty remix of a Drake song was blaring through Stan’s headphones.

“Ugh, can you turn that off? I can’t stand rap music…”

“Good for you.”

Silence.

“Geez, just trying to start conversation…we get a new person her for community service every week and usually they’r-“

“There you go again.”

Wendy felt her eyes roll into the back of her head. She stalked off into the kitchen for a new box of pastries.


	2. Chapter 2

The South Park High cafeteria was crowded and stunk like freshmen boys who had just finished a two period gym class. It wasn’t that it didn’t always smell like that, but Wendy found herself scrunching up her nose while she walked through the lunch line. 

“Oh yeah, Lola fucked Kyle on Sunday. At Craig’s party.” Bebe tossed her ponytail in front of her shoulder and reached for a pair of tongs.

“Kyle. He gets around these days, huh?” Wendy replied.

“Yeah, you heard he fucked Craig too, right? Fuckin’ manwhore.” Bebe and Wendy dropped off the lunch line will full trays and made their way over  
to their lunch table.

Seated at the lunch table was Lola, Red, Nichole, Heidi, and Annie. 

Only the latter of the girls acknowledged their arrival with a somber “Hi, Bebe. Hi, Wendy.”

Bebe took her place at the center of the bench on the left, leaving Wendy to scavenge for a seat on the edges.

“Sooo, his dick was kind of tic tac-y but it was good, not that I was sober enough to remember! No, fuck, I was sooo wasted…” Lola spoke with extravagant hand gestures and the girls corresponded with giggles. 

Wendy ate in silence as the girls shared party stories, some from yesterday, some from a few years ago.  
She had exactly one party story, one she’d never tell. 

Class was tiring. Wendy sat next to Heidi and Red, who were further exchanging recounts of the sex they’d had in blurry, alcohol fueled momentary flashbacks.

She was trying to take notes, but Jesus Christ, they spoke so loud. 

You’d think these boys would object to having estimates of their dick size broadcasted across the Social Studies classroom, but some of the boys were looking back, unfazed and somewhat content. 

Wendy tried to filter the classroom’s chatter out and focus on whatever their sub was putting on the board. 

Wendy arrived home at two to four and flopped on the couch as soon as she walked in the door.

She had to study for the next two hours, at six she had lacrosse practice…but she stared at the ceiling, anticipating her own decision to get up and do something.  
\--------  
Stan lay on the couch and stared at his concrete ceiling. 

He’d finished cleaning out his apartment and he was tired. 

He couldn’t do this shit without snorting some Adderall, but he reminded himself, he was clean now. He got up a few minutes later and carried out a trash bag full of bottles. 

It was six o’clock on the dot and Stan was having trouble thinking of something to do.

He knew he’d usually just drink if he got bored, but he couldn’t do that now. He tried to remember what he was like before he started drinking. He must have been…nine? 

He wanted to save the whales.

That was right, he liked animals. He wanted to protect them, to advocate for them.

He’d read somewhere that many teenage girls were animal rights activists too, because they identified with things that were weak and helpless. 

He was not a teenage girl, and he didn’t feel weak and helpless. 

Well, not all the time. He did when he was drinking, and when he wasn’t…and when he was snorting whatever kind of prescription he could find in his mother’s medicine cabinet, and when he tried heroin that one time. 

And when he was sober and thinking about that. But he never felt like the bottle ruled him, with an iron fist. No, he didn’t!

He tried to give his mind a little nudge, giving it a sign it had to think about something else. 

This “apartment” (In reality it was a storage unit , rented out for $30 a week. It looked much nicer when he cleared all of the bottles off the floor) was not far from his former friends’ neighbourhood. 

He missed them sometimes, now more than ever as he wasn’t drinking to numb the pain. That fucking restraining order though…

The clock struck 7 and he realized he had somewhere to be. The soup kitchen. He put on a coat and walked…he found an old hat outside the storage complex. 

It was a fedora, made of weaved straw with a blue patterned ribbon wrapped around it. 

He put it on, and saw his reflection in a parked car. It made his red acne, dry black hair and watering blue eyes look dignified, he decided. 

He wiped off an old bit of bird shit and kept it on, all the way to the kitchen


End file.
